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(: §teaner JCigh Sched Writing, Competition 

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Mr 9Smk &. SFex and SFex ^Bindery, Smc. for their time and generosity 




The Visit to Lake Archer 

Walking slowly down a winding 
pathway, the sun shimmers, the wind 
blowing gently through the branches. A 
familiar smell of culture carries past the 
senses. Leaves flowing gently to the 
ground. Hearing laughter, screaming, 
singing. Curiosity becomes unbearable. A 
magnificent mirror lies dormant covered 
by the tree's dressings. Visitors scattered 
expressing their own story, reason for peer- 
ing into its glory. 
Passing through, a girl sits relaxing- 
ly, anxiously awaiting the day's end. 
Another admires age and wisdom imprint- 
ed on the bark of nature's child. A best 
friend searches for a perfect spot to carve 
the name of the one who is always there. 
Feeling as if she traveled back to the past, 
bugs amuse her simple thoughts. An ant, 
a beetle. ..oh no! A spider! 
Leaves spiral to the ground. 
Tranquility overwhelms the surroundings. 
Broken by angered voices, maybe joking, 
maybe not, one threatens the peace of 
another. Closer to the water's edge, she 
hangs onto the hand of uncertainty. 
Laughing, crying, emotions flying. Hiding 
them away from the world, a bush close by 
becomes shelter. No judging. No mock- 
ing. No more worries. 
Look. There. ..underneath the glassy 
surface. From the gazebo, she points. A 
fish? No. maybe a shark! Cast in the line! 
Where did it go? Wait. Was that it? Wait. 
A fish flops about, not wanting to 
leave its home. Already there, two home 



bodies feel sympathy. Toss him back. 
Splashing tear drops, it accepts him once 

again. The ripples disrupt a train of 
thought of the last visitor nearby. A griev- 
ing heart entranced by the deep mysterious 
water's edge. With a stick, she probes its 
surface distracting her thoughts. Will a 
new day arise? Will my sadness come and 
go like the ripples in the water? 
The mirror reflects the innermost 
thoughts. So many visitors to come see its 
glory, their tales told through another. It 
welcomes, then says goodbye, awaiting 
those of a new day. 

Samantha Angelo 




Photo by Brandi Hennion 




Photo by fiamantha Angelo 



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Beyond the shadow of light, 

Where photons cannot play. 

Frozen fixed in still life, 

Tiny sections lay. 

The soft glow 

Of excited electron shells, 

Illuminates the secret machinery 

Found only in cells. 



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This is about electron microscopy! 



Dr. Christopher Tipping 



EVERYTHING CHANGES 



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Yellow Sneakers 



From the outside he is dull, dressed in monotone style. 

The only color which shows is the bright* yellow of his sneakers. 

And even that is dull, the bone faded by miles of walking through muddy streets. 

Just him his yellow sneakers and his black ensemble. 

Bui maybe, deep down he really is bright. 

Maybe he Is the person which will create a cure lor cancer 

Or maybe even AlDS. 

But we 11 never know because we step on those different, 

Squashing the heels of our own yellow sneakers into his hopes and dreams. 

We won \ give him a chance because he 's not like us. 

We alienate those who don X dress like vs, who fall to act and think like vs. 

He looks at life differently ? he follows his own mind and path, 

Even though that path causes him to become the outcast, 

Who dresses in black and wears dog collars. 

We don \ like him because he is not like us, 

And that is exactly why his yellow sneakers will never make It 
out of this dead end town. 
^v Because In order to succeed you have to have support, 

And he 11 never get it because he Is not like vs. 



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Two Pits for the Call 

A number of years ago, I went downstairs to the playroom to see what my daughter, 
Casey, was doing. 1 guess she was four or five years old at the time. I found her 
sitting on the floor facing a wall where six or seven of her stuffed animals were 
lined up. She seemed to be talking to them and listening to their responses. I waited 
for a chance to break into the conversation. 

Casey finally turned and looked at me. I asked her what was going on. She said, 
Tm trying to figure out who I should marry." I smiled in spite of myself because she 
was so serious. I asked if she had made any decisions. Apparently, she had nar- 
rowed the field down to a large rabbit and a Teddy bear. She sighed and asked me, 
"How do you decide who you should marry?" 

It is a tricky question for an adult. I told her she should pick someone who she loves 
and who loves her back just as much. 1 told her to pick someone she likes to spend 
her time with and who likes the same things she likes. To pick someone who treats 
her with respect. She thought about this and then looked at me. "Then I choose you," 
she said. 



********** 



This year my daughter Casey turned eighteen. I drove her up to college in New 
Hampshire where she is an entering freshman. She and I took turns driving. She 
makes me a little nervous when she veers in and out of traffic, but I have learned 



11 



to keep my mouth shut and not to reach for a hold oh the dashboard. 
She was clearly excited. We talked about possible majors, music, her friends, her 
brother... We veered in and out of topics with the same rhythms as her driving. 
Whew we got to her new school there was a whole list of things to do: get an IP, 
get a room key, go to the bank, find her dorm, unload the car and carry everything 
up to her room. After two hours, we were done with the list. We walked back to 
the Commons. Groups of students were milling about. There was loud music. There 
was food, balloons, and information tables everywhere. 



She turned to me and 1 could tell she wanted me to go. She hugged me and waved as 
she joined in the flow and eddies of students. I started to walk 
back to the car, but I kept stopping to look back to catch a 
glimpse of her. I finally saw her for a moment. It was 
hard for me to leave. I wasn't 
worried for her safety or her 
decision making ability. I looked 
back at a tall, confident, femi- 
nist-leaning woman with a black 
belt in karate. I just didn't want to 
leave the little girl who picked me 
over a bunny and a pretty darn 
good looking bear. 



CALL YOUR PARENTS 
Larry Stelmach 




12 



"A Phone, A Gun, And A Conscience" 

As I sit here and talk, on the phone, 

Ho one knouis I'm really alone, 

Maybe I have friends that I don't even Know, 

But what does that mean uihen I'm ready to go, 

I Know right and uirong, to tell the truth, 

But I've never sat in that dark sin booth, 

Before I couldn't see me doing it at all, 

But noui I visualize the splatter on the wall, 

I'll be your boy who cried uiolf too many times, 

I'll be your dead poet who has no rhymes, 

I'll destroy all of my good, sell my soul to the devil, 

I uiish I could have been, up on your level, 

So uihen I tell you this time, that I'm for real, 

Please listen to me, 'cuz that scar uion't heal. 

)aryd Steinbacher 



13 



Emotions 

Emotions both wonderful and terrible 

Each action taken to make them bearable 

Sometimes it comes out wrong 

Depending on fears that come along 

Icy shards in place of comfort and trust 

What should be refuge becomes unjust 

To create a place of safety where all can mend 

To nurture not cut those who would be friend 

To understand reasons behind the fears 

Is our only saving grace to dry the tears 

DAH 



Art by fiasha BQllaman 

14 



^rtomneit/ lie*// in/ /wicfa. 



Art by Lauren Wright 

15 




Photo by Lindsay Cropper 



Apocalypse 

It's on the wind... 

The rumblings in the deep are getting louder 

A distant crack, the thunder is warning us 

The pounding of the rain 

It's getting darker 

It's in our minds... 

Everyone knows it, everyone senses our demise 

The gates of hell will open soon 

Fear and terror grip our souls 

The fire will consume us 

It's in our eyes... 

The ground splits open and quakes beneath us 

Smoke fills the skies as hundreds die 

I cannot hear you scream over 

The screaming of the world 

The end is here 



Katie Sickles 

16 



Night Flames 






The sun gone down 

Its rays burned out 

Beyond the rolling seas. 

Gives birth to night 

The darkness deep 

And those in dreams asleep. 

One by one they flutter forth 

To invade a lonesome place 

Until at once they light the night 

A single color - in eternal space. 

Flipping here and twirling there 

Shadows retreat in fear 

As flames of green and gold increase 

And patterns arise so clear. 

The moon goes dull 

The stars seem bleak 

Power lost in mystery. 

As curious notes 

Engulfed by breeze 

Begin to form a melody. 

The flames reign forth, their spell complete 

The trees hang back with fright 

As glitter flickers here and there 

Such a mesmerizing sight. 

With power and grace - the night wears on 

A timeless piece of summer's grace 

For all time the vision's true 

Light in a darkened place. 

But the spell wears thin 

The flickers lose rhyme 

The magic leaves the sky. 

Until the night 

When darkness reigns 

'Twill be no dancing fireflies. 



IMP 

17 



JJ 





"Kilburn Towers" 

'Tunny, the things you remember, and the things you don't"-All About Eve 

I don't remember your name. If someone said Patrick, I wouldn't argue, but I wouldn't 
swear to it either. I don't remember your face. If you were to sit next to me on a bus or a 
plane, I wouldn't recognize you. Depending on my mood, I might strike up a conversation, 
but more than likely we would sit in silence, separating once we reached our respective 
destinations. How could I have forgotten the most important details? I just have, and that's 
the truth. 

A group of us were going to D.C. to meet up with some people we knew. The 
details remain sketchy. (Somehow, I wound up riding in the back of your VW bug with you 
and your girlfriend. Maybe you remember the car? I remember her name. 

I knew about you, of course. Your girlfriend was in my dorm, in a room right around 
the corner from mine. Just an acquaintance, really. I had spent some time there, and had 
heard a lot about you, so even though we had never met, you weren't a stranger to me. 
Odd, that false sense of intimacy: so real, so one-sided. 

Today, the two of you were having an argument, with the usual ebb and flow that 
most arguments have. I can still feel my discomfort; I was a voyeur missing the thrill of being 
caught. My only refuge was to lose myself in the music coming from the eight-track tape play- 
er. The same Bee Gees album: first one side, then the other, over and over. I could hear 

18 



the "click" of the switch from side to side. Before long, I stopped noticing the sound; I 
knew what was coming. 

In spite of the repetition, or maybe because of it, I found myself waiting for one par- 
ticular song. Each time it came on, I sang along quietly; it helped a little. But the argument 
kept going and going, just like the tape. Same themes, same recriminations, same songs: such 
awful symmetry. 

Finally, during a brief lull in the action, she screamed at you to change the music. 1 saw 
your eyes in the rear view mirror. You told her that I was enjoying the music. I knew that 
wasn't the reason you refused her, but I didn't care. Suddenly, I had become a participant, 
a co-conspirator. I smiled. Take that, I thought. You're being such a bitch, so unreasonable. 
He hasn't done anything wrong, what the hell is the matter with you. . . 

It was a relief to arrive at our destination. I met up with my friends, and later we went 
out to a club. When we arrived, you were there; she was nowhere to be seen. I can still 
see an outline of you: a beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, your hair plastered to 
your forehead like a drowning man. You asked me to dance, once, twice, again and again. 
"You look great; you dance so well." I believed you; I had to. We had bonded, found com- 
mon ground. She no longer mattered. 

You asked me to leave the club with you, and I went. Afterwards, you walked me back 
to the house where I was staying. It was so late. I was so happy; you seemed to be. You'd 
call tomorrow; I'd wait for it. Whose house was it, I wonder? 

My friends had seen me leave with you. They wanted all the gory, glorious details-, I 
did my best to provide them over all the chatter. So many voices at once, like overlapping 

19 



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signals on a car radio. Finally, it was decided that you deserved better, and apparently I fit 
the bill. Gradually, one by one, we fell asleep. 

I never heard from you again. The two of you reunited briefly, and then went your 
separate ways. It was college, after all. A long time ago. And yet, in some respects, not long 
enough. 

Are our memories one-sided as well? Are they a highlight for one, less than a foot- 
note for the other? I really can't say. 

I still listen to the song. It is a magic spell, and I am the conjurer of things long forgotten by 
some, but not by all. 



Barbara Murphy Grimes 




As the last raus of the brightness from the sun fia.de,, 

The v-iu-id strea£s of blaze oranae andmaaenta start to haze and dim. 

A blan£et 0/ lush areen arass dar£ens, 

A blue-blac£ carpet 0/ o-elo-et slowly creeps from wit/tin the shadows to ta£e its peace. 

The twin£lina stars in the blac£ened s£y areaently wrapped in pouzy wisps of clouds and blotted out. 

The froas by the pond beain to serenade the cric£ets that hao-e been playina a loo-ely tranquil tune, since dus£. 

A aire steps oat from the shelter of her house. 

Tier s£in, li£e a moonbeam, is pace and smooth 

Her wild ' loc£s are ev-er changing' in the shadows; aold, crimson, honey, cinnamon, li£e a fire dancing in a storm. 

Dari,, thic£, smudaed 'clouds beain to fill the s£u and chase the moon away 

Thunder rumbles andcrac£s. 

Ciahtnina dances to and fro. 

Down into the o-elo-et carpet it crashes. 

The carpet flares with the colors of the rainbow, and then ale is dar£. 

A tendr/fof smo£e issues forth a wea£ hiss as it is slowlu absorbed bw the nfht s£u. 

The s£y cries, areat tears of rain drops pour from the bursting clouds. 

The airls filmy aown becomes plastered to her body as if its a second s£in. 

Drops of liauid crastal slide down her hair and oo-er her face. 

The drops continue down the white s£in of her nec£ and into the bodice of her dress, sliding lazi'la between her 

breasts and down alona her ribs and oo-er her bella. 

Down oo-er her flared hips and alona the length of her sil£en thiah it trao-els. 

Down the contours of her slender calf and around her delicate an£le itaoes, toaently slide off of her toe into the blac£ carpet it poes. 

plow does the wind, its fury un£nown. 

Li£e a Jealous loo-er, its austs pic£ up and whip about the aire. 

The clouds respond, li£e a waterfall, torrents of rain pour fourth, unleashed. 

Theairlis crushed, forced into the around, li£e a flower beina trampled. 

The aallant moon pushes forth from its prison behind the clouds. 

The clouds are wea£ened and slide awau into the nifht with fear. 

The wind dies down and minds its manners, 

A niahtinaale calls from the far side oftheaarden. 

The cric£ets respond and once aaain, beain their loo-ely tune. 

p/loonliaht aentlw shines down upon the airl 

She awa£es hunary and cold. 

A youna man calls from the aarden s edae . 

A slow sensual smile plaus across her lips. 

The wouna man wal£s oo-er to her to offer his assistance. 

She accepts his offer. 

As he bends to lift her from the around, two slender, white daaaers extend ' beu-ond 'her par net lips. 

She laus her head in the cradle of his shoulder andaentlu, brea£s the s£in. 

A softaasp escapes his lips as she slowlu, suc£s out his life. 

when her bellu, is full she delicately wipes her mouth with his £erchief 

She stretches slowly as she stands and winds her way bac£ to tke little house. 

The moon shines full upon her path and the froas haw retained the serenade as she ma£es her way bac£ inside. 

By /Cat nara 

23 



Whenever we have moved from one state to another, which has been often, we 
always need to re-establish our basic support systems: find the best grocery store, 
locate an honest mechanic, see about a good doctor just in case, and find someone who 
can cut your hair and not leave you looking like one of the extras from Road Warrior. 
Having moved to West Virginia, this latter need was particularly difficult to satisfy. I 
generalize, of course, but most women around here like to sport do's that seem to be 
fashioned after their favorite country music star's hair, and as far as I can tell, the 
men really don't go in for getting their hair cut at all. It's just tied back and that's 
good enough. So, we had some trial and error - more like trial and terror - before we 
were recommended to Kenna in Oak Hill, now about f orth-f ive minutes from where we 
live. Still, it's worth it, in all kinds of ways. 

Henna's place is a concrete-block affair at the bottom of a hill in what could only 
be described as a less-than-savory part of town. On the wall outside is a stylized eye, 
painted in red, with a wisp of hair above it and the words Hair by Kenna. Henna's 
establishment is probably best likened to Floyd's barber shop from the Andy Griffith 
Show, at least in terms of its general function and atmosphere. It is a place where the 
regulars gather to chat, maybe get their hair done, and often just to rest their feet. At 
any given time there will be someone in the chair and quite a few others just sitting 
around, exchanging the news with Kenna. Henna's place is always full, and Kenna is 
always cutting hair, but there are usually more people than not who have just come to 
talk. 

Kenna herself is an interesting woman to both see and listen to. She has a shock 
of red hair which she sports as an Iroquois-style top-knot. Those who get their hair 
done by her do not seem to be at all dismayed by this. It is simply understood that 
that's the way Kenna likes her hair: up and out of her way so she can get down to busi- 
ness. Kenna explains her name to us on our first visit: She comes from a family of sev- 
eral siblings and her father had longed for a boy so that he could impart to him his 
favorite name: Kenneth. However, mother and father agreed that their next child 
would be their last, and so when Kenna came along, father, despairing of ever being 
able to impart his favorite name, decided to compromise with Kenna. "It was either 
then or nuthin'", Kenna says with a laugh. 

Kenna has no reservations telling us about her personal life, particularly when 
she learns we have recently relocated and so are, to her way of thinking, traveled per- 
sons like herself. This is an important connection for our first conversation, because 
traveling is not something that most West Virginians do, and so Kenna has found an 
understanding audience at last. Kenna relates that upon graduation from high school 

25 



she ran away form home to North Carolina and joined the army: "Just fed up with 
thangs, y' know?" She then did a tour in Germany which she thought was wonderful. 
It was terribly exotic and different. It was just what she had hoped for. Kenna was in 
charge of testing gas masks and biological-weapon suits. She passes along the story of 
the time when they were testing one suit in a 'hot' environment and it didn't work. 
Her colleague was gassed pretty effectively. "It was not a purty sight," she opines. 
"Stuff was comin' purtty much outta every or'fice! Ugh!" When her tour was finished 
she considered re-upping, but thought that it was maybe time to get back to the States 
again. When she got back she realized that she really had no plans or any sense of 
what she wanted to do or where she wanted to be. As a result, she took what money 
she had and just bought a bunch of bus tickets" "Didn't matter where, Honey. I jist 
wanted to see thangs, y'know? So off I went. Went all over the place. It was plumb 
great!" 

After traveling for a while, she decided she wanted to come back home and start 
up a beautician's place and get married, and that's just what she did. The marriage 
didn't go on very long, or so we gather, but Kenna's place is doing quite well. 

Kenna is our hair -cutter. At least, that's the way we think of her. Surely she 
would not consider herself a Barber or even a Stylist. "Beautician" is the word she 
prefers, but I think she only uses it because she says it rhymes with "magician." 

We were at Kenna's place the last Thursday before Christmas. When we arrived 
some of the regulars were there. Drema sat over by the cash register, Detra and her 
daughter were also there, and two other older women that I didn't recognize. Julie and 
I took some piles of magazines off a couple of chairs and sat down to wait. In the cor- 
ner Kenna has a Christmas tree, decorated with various plastic curlers and wisps of 
garishly colored wig snippings. It's interesting, and I say so. Drema says it's "right 
purrty, now you mention it." Kenna gives one of her patented snorts and snips away 
at the elderly lady in the chair. In a short while another lady comes in and Kenna asks 
if she's wanting an appointment. However, the lady says she's just looking for a local 
doctor and wants directions. Upon learning who it is that she's looking for, Kenna puts 
down her scissors and puts an arm around the stranger and directs her out the door so 
she can point out which direction the woman should take. Kenna says: "And it's close, 
too. Why, Honey, you're so close you can smell his feet." Thus assured, the stranger 
heads off. 

The conversation takes up with Drema's recent run-in with the law. Drema is 
40ish or so, clearly weighs in at roughly 250 pounds, and is not someone you'd like to 
mess with if you know what's good for you. Drema starts off the story by relating her 
troubles with her daughter's "nervous ailment." This involves some sort of serious 

26 



sneezing fit whenever she is under duress. "And it is jist awful," Drema laments. 
"When she gets a-goin' then the snot is simply flyin' everywhere. It's on the walls and 
her toys and everything." Julie and I are trying not to laugh. Drema might not under- 
stand that we find this funny. Drema goes on to explain how she recently ended up in 
the county lock-up. "Wall, that stoopid prince'pal down at the school, he calls my girl a 
liar. With me jist sittin' there in front of him." Kenna snickers at this. Clearly this is 
not a good thing to do. "Wall, I told him to apologize and he says he ain't apologizing to 
no liar. That's when I grabbed his tie and yanked, and right across that desk he come. 
I drug him all the way to the parkin' lot. Course, later I had to call my ol' man to come 
get my daughter, 'cause they are a-takin' me to jail!" She gives a big laugh to this, and 
then shakes her head a bit. "Hunnert hours of community service. Huh." Her daugh- 
ter is apparently doing better now that she is on medication. "Is that some sort of psy- 
chotic drug?" Kenna asks. "Don't know, " Drema says. "I jist give it to her twice a 
day." 

The phone rings then and Kenna picks it up. She is talking to someone who clear- 
ly has a mutual friend. "Well," Kenna says into the phone, "Wandalena was f eelin' 
purrty under the weather, but she checked herself outta the hospital nevertheless." 
Julie and I exchange glances across the room. "Wandalena?" Julie mouths. Julie 
clasps a hand over her mouth and I try to take deep breaths and not meet her eyes. 
The conversation continues: "Well, Wandalena was supposed to go over to Mary 
Canterbury's tonight." Julie is now squinting and gets up and heads to the bathroom. I 
am gasping and trying hard to read a sentence from Esquire. Julie comes back later 
and will not look at me. If she does, I am sure she will bust out laughing. Drema might 
take offense at this. 

Thankfully someone else comes in at this moment. It's Jack. Given the naming 
traditions in West Virginia, I am relieved to find out that Jack is really Jackie. She is a 
stout, gray-haired lady who has come in to buy cigarette lighters from Kenna as stock- 
ing-stuff ers. She sports a sweatshirt with "Army" on the front and is one of those peo- 
ple who obviously has lots of energy. "Even if ya don't smoke," she says, "ya oughtta 
always have a lighter on hand. Never know when ya wanna get somethin' hot." She 
laughs and so does everyone else. Clearly this is an inside joke we're not aware of. 
Jack relates an off -color joke then. When the laughter subsides she turns to me and 
says "Sorry sir, but that's what you get for hangin' out in a beauty parlor." Jack gets 
her lighters and takes a seat. It's getting cold outside. 

So, 

It's my turn finally and Kenna gets me in the chair. She, like all other hair-cut- 

27 



ters I've ever known, has a large mirror in front of the chair. However, she never faces 
any of her customers so that they might actually watch what's going on as their hair is 
being cut. I guess this is the result of Kenna's need to face her audience while talking, 
and this is of course going on ceaselessly. 

For me, the disadvantage of this is not that I can't see what's going on, but rather 
because I am now facing Detra and her daughter across the small room. Detra's daugh- 
ter, whose name I've never caught, is about 30ish and is very well dressed. In fact, she 
may be the best-dressed person I've ever seen in Oak Hill. However, it is distressing to 
be facing her because her eyes go in two different directions, and when she talks, 
which is rare, you can't tell if she's talking to you or someone else. The fact that she 
doesn't talk is probably a good thing. Julie says she reminds her of Billy Bob 
Thornton's role in Sling Blade. Sad, but true. 

It is near the Holidays, and so the conversation turns to gift-giving. Kenna asks 
Jack if she'll get her a man for Christmas. "Any sort at all will do," Kenna says. 
"Long's he got arms and legs and the other parts I'm okay with him." This mention of 
a man brings Detra back to life, who relates the story of a recent encounter with a 
strange man in the woods by her place. This is pretty scary stuff, but thankfully noth- 
ing came of it. Kenna, however, says "Man, I'd be out wanderin' in them woods tryin' 
to get raped if it were me!" 

Then the talk moves on to Drema's account of her second husband giving her a 
pressure cooker for Christmas. "And what the hell am I gonna do with that thang? 
God knows I'd blow the house down with it!" Detra concurs, and in a small voice says 
"That's just what happened with me, with a mess of beans. They went everywhere." 
This, in turn, reminds Kenna of another Christmas cooking fiasco. She tells how her 
one-time husband was from Pennsylvania and that "Them Pennsylvanians is crazy for 
chestnuts. He was after me about it for weeks, so damn if I didn't go get some and 
make 'em. So, there they was, in the oven, and we was in the front room. Then I hear a 
loud 'pop!' I come out and open the oven and it's like Viet Nahm in there! Chestnuts 
were just explodin' like crazy. I ducked and one went and bust out the light bulb," she 
whoops. 'Shrapnel is flyin' all over the place, and that husband of mine is so mad 
'cause now he can't have his chestnuts. He's mad at me for hours. Then, later, he 
starts laughin'. He says 'Now I remember, you're supposed to put a cut in the shells to 
let the steam out!" 

My hair is done and it's Julie's turn. 

Dr. Gregg A. Smith 



28 



IflMfl PILBR 




MY NAME IS STEVE . . . AND I AM fl PILER. ANY PLOT SUR- 
FACE SOLID ENOUGH TO WITHSTAND A GRAVITATIONAL LOAD IS 
LIKELY TO BECOME BURIED WITH PAPERS, LETTERS, MAGAZINES, 
AND BOOKS. MY DESKTOP IS ABLE TO SYMPATHIZE WITH THE 
BLIND CRICKETS OF MAMMOTH CAVE WHO NEVER SEE THE SUN. 
A TABLE, A CHAIR, A TV TABLE ARE AT RISK OF BEING 
ENGULFED BY MY LIFE'S FLATWARE. 

IN MY DEFENSE, I WISH TO POINT OUT TO YOU, GOOD READ- 
ER, THAT WHAT APPEARS TO AN UNINFORMED BY-STANDER TO 
BE A CHAOTIC MESS ON MY DESK IS, IN FACT, AN ACHAOTIC 
MESS. WHILE CHAOS MAY BE DEFINED AS "LACK OF ORDER", I 
WOULD DESCRIBE MY MESS AS A LACK OF COMPLETE DISORDER. 
UNDER AND WITHIN THE PILES, I KNOW, IN SURPRISING DETAIL, 
THE LOCATION AND CHARACTER OF THEIR CONTENTS. A BRIEF 
DESCRIPTION OF MY DESK MIGHT HELP YOU TO ENVISION THIS. 
IN THE UPPER LEFT CORNER IS A PILE OF OLD PAPERS THAT 
HAVE BEEN WAITING TO BE PROPERLY FILED IN MY CABINET. 
KEEP WAITING, FRIENDS. IT IS ABOUT 12 INCHES DEEP. I 
AFFECTIONATELY REFER TO IT AS PILE A. TWO SLIPPERY MAGA- 
ZINES HAVE CAUSED PILE B TO TILT AND LEAN AGAINST ITS 
NEIGHBOR, PILE C, FORMING A KIND OF BRIDGE THAT SUPPORTS 
A KIND OF HYBRID PILE, CAREFULLY BALANCED, THAT IS BOTH B 
AND C. TOGETHER, THE TRIO HAS THE APPEARANCE OF AN UP- 
SIDE DOWN Y OR GOAL POST. THE URGENCY OF READING THESE 
MAGAZINES IS ONLY SLIGHTLY GREATER THAN MY URGENCY IN 
FILING THE CONTENTS OF PILE A. NOW, PILE D DESERVES SOME 
SPECIAL ATTENTION. IT CONTAINS TIME-SENSITIVE PAPERS, 
FORMS, MEMOS AND THE LIKE. THE ITEM AT THE BOTTOM OF 
THIS PILE HAS BEEN THERE SINCE THE END OF THE LAST FIS- 
CAL YEAR. SO MUCH FOR TIME-SENSITIVITY. I STATED THAT I 
KNOW EACH PILE'S CONTENTS; I HAVE NOT CLAIMED TO ACT ON 
THEIR DEMANDS. PLEASE DON'T TELL MY SUPERVISORS ABOUT 
THIS. 

YOU, PATIENT READER, ARE, NO DOUBT, MORE ORDERLY 
THAN I AM. MOST PEOPLE ARE. I ONCE SHARED AN OFFICE 
WITH A WOMAN WHO WAS SO ORDERLY, SO NEAT, SO EFFICIENT, 
SO DISCIPLINED, THAT MY 3EALOUSY WAS SECONDED ONLY BY 
MY AWE. AT THE END OF EACH DAY, THE ONLY ITEMS ON HER 
DESK WERE A DICTIONARY (IT WAS CONTAINED BY TWO BOOK- 
ENDS) AND A BOX OF TISSUES. HER LAST ACT EVERY FRIORY 
WAS TO WIPE HER DESK TOP WITH LEMON PLEDGE. I REMEMBER 



29 



AN OCCASION IN WHICH SHE ALLOWED A NOTEBOOK TO CLUTTER 
HER DESK FOR A FULL TWO DAYS. I LATER LEARNED THAT 
SHE HAD BEEN SUFFERING FROM THE FLU AND WAS "NOT HER- 
SELF". I FORGAVE HER FOR HER TRESPASSES. IF SHE HAD- 
N'T BEEN SO FRIENDLY, SMART, EFFICIENT, AND PRETTY, I AM 
SORRY TO ADMIT THAT I THINK I WOULD HAVE ALLOWED 
MYSELF TO HATE HER. 

PEOPLE OF MY ILK ARE A STIGMATIZED MINORITY IN OUR 
SOCIETY. WE ARE CONTINUALLY BURDENED WITH THE NEED TO 
KEEP OUR SECRET HIDDEN AND CLOSETED. HOWEVER, OUR 
CLOSETS ARE SO CLUTTERED, THERE IS NO ROOM FOR US 
THERE. SO, WE BECOME OUTED BY OWN MESSES. SOME OF US 
REMAIN ALOOF TO THE GREATER SOCIETY IN THE HOPE OF 
AVOIDING THE CRITICAL STARES, SHAKING HEADS, AND GOSSIP 
OF OUR COLLEAGUES AND FAMILIES. SOME OF THE BRAVE 
AMONG US HAVE DETERMINED THAT THEY ARE WHAT THEY ARE 
AND GOD STILL LOVES THEM. THEY KNOW THAT THE SUM OF 
THEIR CHARACTER MAKES THEM MORE THAN MERE PILERS. 
THEY WALK IN THE WORLD WITHOUT SHAME OR APOLOGY. THEY 
MERELY WANT TO BE LEFT ALONE BY BIGOTS AND POLITICIANS. 
A FEW OF US SHOW UP ON THE 3ERRY SPRINGER SHOW. 

I NO LONGER CARRY THE FEELINGS OF GUILT THAT 
SOCIETY WOULD LIKE TO PILE ON ME. SOME "EXPERTS" SAY 
THAT THE PENCHANT FOR PILING IS LEARNED AND THAT PILERS 
CHOOSE TO BE THAT WAY. RECENT BRAIN RESEARCH, HOWEVER, 
HAS INDICATED THAT BEING A PILER IS DUE TO GENETICS. AS 
FOR ME, I KNOW I INHERITED THIS BEHAVIOR FROM MY FATHER. 
HE INHERITED IT FROM HIS MOTHER WHO, FAMILY LORE HAS 
INFORMED ME, INHERITED IT FROM HER MOTHER. FROM THERE 
THE TRAIL GOES COLD. I DO NOT KNOW THE LOCATION OF THE 
HEADWATERS OF THIS GENETIC DISPOSITION IN MY FAMILY. BUT, 
SIMPLY KNOWING THAT THIS CHARACTER IS NOT MY FAULT IS 
QUITE COMFORTING. I DECLARE TO YOU, GOD MADE ME THIS 
WAY. MARK TWAIN ASKED, "WHY DO WE CONDEMN THE CAT, WHO 
WAS DESIGNED BY ITS CREATOR TO BE SO CRUEL TO ITS PREY? 
DOESN'T SUCH CONDEMNATION CRITICIZE THE GREAT ARCHITECT 
ITSELF?" THIS IS PARAPHRASING TWAIN, OF COURSE. I WOULD 
LIKE TO QUOTE HIM VERBATIM, BUT MY COPY OF AMERICAN 
HUMORISTS IS NEAR THE BOTTOM OF PILE E. AND I DON'T 
FEEL LIKE DISTURBING IT RIGHT NOW. 

OR. STEVE DEBROUX 




30 



WhrO£V£R. 5All> JUNE, 3ULY, AN> AU6-U5T AR-£ "THR.££ 6-00> 
R.EA50N5 FOR. "TEACHING-? 

"you're not making ii.COOO.00 a year yet are ycu?" asked, my mom en one of our many trips to Oregon. "Mom, I'm making more tnan fnat; I'm a 
college professor," and I told her the salary figure. It was ever $2.0,000. Compared with her $H,5CC-$5£C0 maximum as an elementary school 
teacher in "The l<?50's and £C's mine seemed like a king's ransom! 

why did I choose to become a teacher? Probably because our mother was a teacner, not only of four boys and of the Junior Boys class in 5andy 
Community Church 5unday 5chcol, but also an elementary school teacher at four different schools in Nebraska and Oregon. Fur+nermcre, Atom's 
brother, Uncle £verett and his wife, Aunt Anne, were also elementary school teachers in rural Idaho. These were my early mentors. Later, my first 
^rade teacher in 5andy [Oregon] elementary school, Mrs. R-uth Mitchell, the eighth jjrade one, Mr. Lane-who at age <76 recently attended cur 5<Jtti 
high school reunion in Orcgcn-and my high school English and French teacher, Mrs. £dith Jemtegaard, whom I adored even though she was tough, were 
further sources of inspiration to me. It was she who encouraged me enough in French to win the Prix d'ttonneur award. They were always professional- 
ly arcamed, used excellent grammar, knew each of us students by first and last names, and even allowed room mofners to bring in special treats for 
us from time to time. And their standards for excellence were high and _gained cur respect. 

One graduate professor stands out for his teaching technique: >r. Timothy Lin, who used to tell me, "Ziemer, you never write a aped, first draft but 
you always benefit by re-wnting." It takes me a while to _get it right and to "(Jit 'r done." 

I used to think that I'd be at Delaware Valley College for three to five years because when my wife and 1 first mamed we lived in Pcylestown 
and New Britain during cur honeymoon years. Glancing back now at forty years at Delaware Valley College I can verify Job's utterance, "Cur years 
pass by sw'ftcr than a weaver's shuttle" or 5t. James's, "Our life is a vapor." 

t>r. Arthur Brown, whom I replaced in teaching Philosophy ojnd 5oaolqgy at T>VC, sat next to me on a bench in front of Allman Building on tne day of 
my interview, May 1166. When I questioned him about the uncertainty of how effective I'd be teaching at an agrajjiural college, he replied, "You'll 
do just fine." I tried. 

One of the first issues was scheduling office hours for the students and classes and an encouragement to jjet "broken in" by teaching Summer 5chod 
first. Another was meeting the stem J>r. work, then the president and its fearless leader. 5alary negotiation netted me $7,000.00 tnat first year 
in i<766-67, and Pr. work said if I did a aped job, I'd _get a *500 raise the next year, when that time came, the dean called me into his office 
to have me sign the contract for the following year. I _gazed in dismay at the $2.50.00 raise and told him so. We said there was nothing he could 
do about it but that I was welcomed to speak with T>r. work, when I confronted I>r. work with my diary in which I had written $500 for dory a 
_gocdjob, he replied, "I>id I say that?" 
"Yes, that's what I wrote; did I do a^oodjob?" Affirmative reply. 

"Give me that @**! Paper." H-e crossed out the $2.50, replacing it with *500 and said, "Take that to the <?*!* dean." I was stunned not only 
by his profanity but also that salary was so easy to negotiate and gained jjreat respect fa the second founder of >VC— the founder of the H-year 
Collcge, even though his vocabulary mirrored that of my lumberjack Oregonian ancestors. 

It is said we remember the very apod, and the very bad students. I can't say which it is for me, but teaching has _given me the decade c\rvro-cc 
that my mother enjoyed times four. Upon visiting classmates, relatives, or friends in Oregon, I usually meet someone who says, "Your mother was my 
3rd or Hth afo.de teacher way back when." Ker legacy lives on in their memories, and her mentorship validates why I chose teaching. 

The traditoral apple fa me, a teacher, has included sacks of potatoes, duck eggs, fresh hase radish, mushrooms, produce, pscs, venison, maple syrup, 
scaes of cards at Christmas, Valentine's Pay, birthdays, and yes, even Father's t>ay. 

during the intervening years of my own years in the classroom I've been the recipient of so much kindness that 1 feel I owe everybody I know-T,\i- 
John >cnne a Milton was right in saying, "I'm a part of all I've met." 

X>r. R.ichard C. ZiCmer, Prcficssa of Liberal Arts 

31 




QC^ Ieaacu left tow owf- ohudwen 

Q% it law to- haw tm& utcwtd on? 

TpowwuAted 

Qswidfed 

Q/Vol neawtu as intended 

Qsne natural ivoida 'in snawuHeti 

Q/jkede& disaA/tearlngs 

(pn iwronmcnts faaved ovew- 

OQt- aiasteland 'ftemcdns 
Qsn the name of/twoayyedS 

Q9% Ieaacu is left pirn ouv- chudwn 

y&nice id- sm/otna 

Qsicaa is ta^ncna 

OJ/ie (xymoti awe dwotdwna 

QJ Ae keo/ite awe d / m / na, 
Qsn the name ofhwoaveSS 

Q&& Ieaacu left low ouw oAudven 

(pacA aewiewatiowi teases a leaac-u 

CpacA id a tittte aee/iev, a little aawlcew 

Q&1 lowmiaalle Ieaacu tAat nevew tmlvrov&s 

Qjinlclvia dee/^ew uwvtil we awe no mowe 

1 '1 '-28-04 



32 





33 



Photo bu Danielle Friedrieh 



UheUZings 



Unere !s d ust on a pair of wedding rinas, 

ylnd tne engagement ring no longer gleams , 

Witn a fierg love wnicn Anows no rear. 

Ujecause tneg can sense in tneir metal tnat divorce is near. 

cjo wng would tneg snine and deliver a lie, 

loJnen there is no longer a lovers ' light in tneir wearers ' ege? 

cSo theg^tt tarnisn tneir color ) tneg don V care anymore. 

UAieg will never again be united; tneg 7/ oe tnrown in a drawer. 

forgotten sgmools of gestergear tneg will lie in the darA — alone. 

Cfind what t£eg once stood for will lie in Slackness — unAnown. 



^nsnlie jarosiewicz 




34 




Photo by Lindsay Croppor 



35 



v^ejf^oes it bo Tpe g^owiXg 

When, just when does my grape 
jrfrbor grow - does anyone 

t)oes anyone know 

t)oes anyone - can anyone 

See not me. 

Tens, hundreds of new shiny 

Xgaves - of new bright leaves 

Scores of twining stringy swinging 

Vines - canes anew sprout clusters 

Of concord grapes -fonn - then 

Grow - does anyone know 

Can anyone see. 

Jrom^lpril to July - some sixty 

t)ays or so....yet I see not 

I see nothing of their growing. 

That grapevine of mine remains 

^ mystery. J\fo th ing of their 

Growing do I see. 

Jiot a leaf- not a sprout - not 
^1 cane can I see grow. 

Jiothing of their growing can I 

Watch - only their lush lush 

^[fter-gi-owth do I spot. 

Qernie Qemstein 



36 



Valour Thus Honour 

When such a thing will come at last, 

Night shall render weak and come to pass. 

And through such shimmering armor will retreat, 

That which once was thought lost in defeat. 

No shield - no sail of boat be strong 

Enough to hold this storm for long. 

Powers beyond have issued as such 

And all must accept this will by touch. 

The valiant and true shall no longer disdain, 
For they have won their highest such fame. 

His truth and soul have shown to all 
He sacrificed love to honor - letting it befall. 

And he went forging all power forth, 

Knowing for you only endless love and worth. 

Watching in fields as darkness ensued 

Holding to his hope's last lingering truth. 

Thus behold the Sun gleaming beyond! 

Masking the stars of which maidens are fond. 

Also see that Nature revives, 

Creating beauty to which men could only strive. 

And now he sits so exalted in love, 

King of Truth honored from above. 

For he has restored this land to a rightful path, 

Thus being awarded love only he could have.... 

LMP 















Art by Megan Wasniewski 



38 



JWe>/'/ze'/ea 



Jffe/u? ffwmwa j far, 

-/Ae dfte?eede fa /ze/zzseaj sifa/zf ua/t 

<%76>a mamt'/m earm, 

-JAe ce?eft/e efteerfmaffere/ee/me /fefatt 
^ez/e eft Jeez, 
^ez/e eft ezceezzi, 
fflez/e eft rizzenf, 
^/eft/auftu/cMe/ezi ezftez e/eze'e?ezJ ec 
///e//e? ezzezne/ 
JzYeae? fteft/e, 
-J/ieJ left; ed/eejt for pen. 



3/3/05 J7%fea ^e/ZeezmJ 



39 






Father 



This life is but a lie in truth in hiding. Each day 

passes by and wishes of change shows in eye. 
Waiting for the day when this monster will be 
put to rest. Misery and destruction will be its 
final test. All my first days spent without care 
or concern. Living behind a lie plotted for me 

to learn. Till my last days of immaturity. My last 

DAYS OF INSECURITY. My BEGINNINGS TO MY END. THE 

BEGINNINGS TO MY DESTINY TO SPEND. ETERNITY OF 

LIFE WITH A HOLE IN MY HEART. A BLEEDING PIECE OF 

ART. YOU SHOT ME MANY A TIME IN HEART AND SOUL. 

A SCAR THAT WILL STAY WITH ME TILL I'm OLD. I DONT 

KNOW YOU ANYMORE. A STRANGER IN THE MORGUE. 

This shift in you caused such an imbalance. A 

WORKER BEE CAUGHT IN A TRANCE. Set ON RICHES TO 
CURE LIFES PROPER OBSTACLES. BURNING FOND FAMIL- 
IAR MEMORIES UPON YOUR SECRET MANTLE. YOURE 
GOING DOWN HILL AND YOURE TAKING US WITH YOU. 
TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH I STILL LOVE YOU. BUT NOW 
KNOWING THE GoD GIVEN TRUTH. It's HARD TO SEE 
WHAT YOUVE BECOME AND LIKE YOU. EVERY DAY WAS 

THOUGHT THAT YOU WERE FATHER BuT INSTEAD I 

FOUND MYSELF THE EXPERIMENTAL PET RATHER THAN 

YOUR LOVING AND ONLY DAUGHTER 

To Be Continued... 



40 







c 



*«*••• V 




Photo by Sue Graf 



I'M SCARED 

I'M AFRAID MY LOVE HAS NO MORE LOVE FOR ME 
ALL SHE NEEDS IS TIME 

TIME TO THINK ABOUT IF IT'S TRUE AND WILL BE 
NO MATTER THE PART OF DAY SHE'S ON MY MIND 

I FEEL WEAK BECAUSE ALL I WANT TO DO IS BREAK DOWN 

IT HELPS BUT KILLS 

MY LOVE IS STRONG FOR BOTH OF US IF SHE'D JUST COME AROUND 

BUT IT SEEMS SHE DOESN'T CARE HOW I FEEL 

I PUT HER THROUGH PAIN' BUT I NEVER SAID I NEED TO KNOW 
I DO KNOW' SHES ALL I KNOW ' BABY GIRL 
WE DON'T NEED TO GROW APART' BUT JUST GROW 
TOGETHER' BUT IT'S SHRINKING' MY WORLD 

SHE USED TO TELL ME SHE DIDN'T WANT TO START ALL OVER AGAIN 

KEEPING ME UP' BUT THEN BREAKING ME DOWN 

I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S REAL ANYMORE 

IT'S A BIG CITY' AND I'M STUCK IN THIS LITTLE TOWN 

I GAVE HER A GIFT AND SHE BARELY LOOKED AT IT 

LEFT MY HEART IN MY CAR DOOR 

AT THE TIME IT WAS SUPPOSED TO SATISFY HER LOVE FOR ME' I ADMIT 

YOU CAN'T BUY THIS LOVE AT ANY KIND OF STORE 

I WISH I WASN'T CURSED WITH BLINDNESS 

SHE STOOD WITH ME WHEN I HURT HER MOST 

I SWEAR IF I COULD I'D TAKE IT ALL BACK* I'M NOT LYING ABOUT THIS 

I'D CHERISH HER SO MUCH' I MISS HER' AND NOT JUST A SCOTCH' 

YOU LOVE SOMEONE' YOU LET THEM GO 

BUT WHAT IF THEY DON'T COME BACK' 

I THOUGHT WE HAD NOTHING TO THINK ABOUT AND NOW I KNOW 

ONE SIDED LOVE' SMACK 



42 



SHE KNOWS HOW I FEEL' BUT SHE'S BLINDED AS WELL 
THIS IS WHAT TEMPTATION DOES TO YOU 
I'M NOW PAYING FOR MY SINS AND I'M IN HELL 
MY ANGEL HAS TO SAVE ME' IT IT'S TRUE 

IT HAS TO BE REAL' NOTHING ABOUT US WAS FAKE 
I'M HERE WAITING TO HEAR HER VOICE 
JUST WAIT' SHE'LL BE BACK' WAIT 
I REALLY HAVE NO OTHER CHOICE 

TOTALLY OUT OF CONTROL' NO CONTROL 

MY HEART TORN 

SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF THIS 6 FOOT HOLE 

IT FEELS LIKE I'M DEAD' BUT WOULD SHE BE THERE TO MOURN 

SELFISH ON BOTH SIDES 

IT'S ALL IN HER HANDS NOW 

I PRAY SHE REALLY DOES LOVE ME 

SHE'LL BE BACK SOMEDAY' SOMEHOW 

HOWEVER LONG IT TAKES' I'LL BE HERE UNTAINTED 

FIND YOURSELF' BABY GIRL' PLEASE 

NO NEED TO ANY FURTHER EXPLAIN IT 

DO WHAT YOU NEED TO DO' GIRL' JUST DON'T TEASE 

IT'S JUST SO HARD AND I'M SO IMPATIENT 

YOU KNOW ME BEST 

THAT'S WHY IT'S SO HARD' I ENTRUSTED YOU WITH EVERYTHING 

NOW PUTTING YOUR LOVE TO THE TEST 

THE NEWFOUND RING TURNED AROUND 

I JUMP OUT OF BED OUT OF MY HOLE 

I HEAR THE VIBRATION' THAT FAMILIAR SOUND 

I START TALKING' THE GIRL ON THE OTHER LINE' BEAUTIFUL 

STEVE CARREON 



43 





Photo bg Jim Linden 



i> 



PAhfG&R. AM6M 



Lately \ It seems Vve been possessed 

Jvlth a sudden uncontrollable need 

To gather •KAfKNINGi OANG&k plastic strips 

Trout un-safe sties oh my sidewalk walking trips. 

Oh, We tried to stew the urge 

I've lied to purge this urge 

'Eut try try as \ may I cannot stay 

The urge to steal and take away 
Theses gaudy strips of many colors 

bellows, reds, orange and blues 

Stark and glaring or lesser hues. 

As J saunter strolling by 

Seemingly gazing at the sky 

Next to some large excavation 

Ribboned by plastic tapes of demarcation. 

Suddenly, secretly, l snip a strip 

And quickly roll It In a ball 
And plunge It In my pockets tall. 

homeward, homeward, travel I 

"Never glancing toward earth or sky 

Straight \ stroll fast and true 

hJlth my strips of red and yellow 

h)lth my strips of orange and blue. 

Safe at home \ unwind each colored tape 

And bind it stoutly to a garden stake 

Stake to stake these strands of many 

\n and out these strands of plenty 

Torm a fmt and fertile rope 

To protect my tomatters and cantaloupe. 

'Eernle Bernstein 

46 



Sicking Muse 

Poor desperate muse 

What ails the complexion 

Of your deep awakening eye 

Your body of stealth 

Sitting there by oneself 

a parallel dimension 

Its prison has been permeated... 

Within your thoughts 

a place of eternity 

Within your desperate grasp 

Your stares still within 

The visions of night and days true eternal meaning 

Sicking, erotic aromas of sexual taste 

Ghastly beauties of most pleasing tease 

Their enticing appearance 

Trapping your innocent mortal soul 

Guiding you to your eternal rest 

to make you whole... 

Corrupted faeries of sicking play 

Accidents by day 

Disasters by night 

It's all for their gain 

to feed of your fright 

Innocent curiosity and childish wonder 

is what bleeds their cold emotionless hearts 

The Nightmare's grasp 

is what you see before you 

Such everlasting tyranny 

The whirlpool of redemption 

Drowning in its churn 

Who will be next...? 



In praise and favor to the French Book of Poems "The Flowers of Evil" and 

none other than the poem "Sick Muse" by Charles Baudelaire and 

translated by francis duke. 



47 






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£>£><l£ t^Ag- 3fri2> CV£X4>t?&U, i£ r ~C&4<*' /6v6&t&s £*/ /6tU*^o6t^i^ &<&£&. 

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fa€X>t&jL, '/ Pt<4*44- &&£ r ~^>£A^**£ r ~&#tc£ 6&£4? KPU^- £e&*V? &UU&&- tf>Ot>t?, / **?£&&' cJl&Z^£- G^h^Z^ tWCri*****^ &#t&C- 




Art by Shelby Taltay 



Auburn 

f\ name tbat speaks its true meaning. 

Can you see its torture yet beauty/ 7 

O^e sun is tbe true love/ 

? : \ccentuating tbe reds in every strand 

like dry tvood feeding tbe flame. 

Oje rays long to toucb, 

Creeping tbrougb tbe tiniest of openings 

tbe trees rvill allon?. 

33ut tbere is anotber/ 

tbe tnoon 

f\ love kept bidden by tbe darkness. 

Rer matcFjing eyes steal glances 

at tbe pearl in tbe sky. 

Sbe rvouldn't dare to look at ber 

true love tbat ruay. 

*vv>bispers burn ber ears of mistaken identity. 

Oje ligbt sborun tbrougb tbe nigbt 

peers into ber soul/* 

Vet reminds ber of anotber. 

Rer sun 

tin disbelief, tbe eartly b°'ds ber sigbt. 

Q>2 tvind caresses ber softly. 

Inlays nntb ber locks as a child n'ould curl F)fe 

motber's in bettveen eacb finger. 

Or is it tbe ruay a lover tvould toucb ber 

ever so gently in tbe strongest of passion^ 

Do longer trusting, sbe turns to tbe n>ater. 

F>e brings ber gifts, secrets, and mystery. 

0>2 tbrill appeals to ber. 

<3oing to bin% ber flame is extingui&bed 

"Cbe bronm lingers as tbe rvater surrounds ber. 

Sbe fell for bim, 

but nnll tbis love dronm ber.^ 

tits beauty brings ber torture. 

Samantba 3o Mngelo 

49 



The Baker's Dozen 

A dozen red roses mean 12 different things, 

The first says love never ending, fly forever on wings. 

The second is for our own ideas, only you can decide, 

The third is for the courage to stick by his side. 

The fourth is for kindness, which everyone needs, 

The fifth for the future, wherever it leads. 

The sixth is for the present, living day to day, 

The seventh is for faith, never to be led astray. 

The eighth is for the past, which resides in us all, 

The ninth is for the words unsaid, the writings upon the wall. 

The tenth is for romance, the simple words "I Love you." 

The eleventh is strength, all the times you have gotten through. 

And finally the twelfth, which means forget me not. 

But wait, here's another which sticks out from the lot. 

This rose is yellow, for our friendship no doubt, 

Because friends are just roses which we can't live without. 

So a dozen red roses arranged differently with just one, 

Oneyellow rose, a friendship, that can't be outdone. 

Ashlie Jarosiewicz 



50 




an Wasnieuslc 



ffiovm On 

ffiy life is moving to a new chapter 

2 often fear what 3 will be leaving behind... 

HTy friends, good memories, and laughter 

Rever to be seen again as the road of life begins to 

wind. 

Will they Keep in touch? 

Or will 2 be quickly forgotten? 

Bon't Know why 2 think as such: 

Usually pessimistic, rarely optimistic 

Why do my thoughts tend to turn rotten? 

But 2 shouldn't despair 

Cuz that 5 the way of life, 2 just have to prepare 

For this impending, drastic change 

That will take me from my comfortable range. 

Though 311 be leaving behind the old, 

2 will also be approaching the new. 

So Tve gotta be strong and bold 

Knd not let my fears and insecurities turn me blue. 

Tve finally graduated, 

J'm glad 2 made it. 

2 say it's time to catch my dream 

Find enjoy life, change ain't as bad as it may seem 

Hn my head plays music that 3'm groovin' on, 

3t helps me cope even better with movin' on! 

Loren Qarnett-Lewis 



52 



H .,r>'- 








X 




QLciculaX 

CJlajlal £>een\i> trie loay trujigi ale nifant to ue 

cfln iluiiioix Ls all It ioo6; tl\eleaJ±gatLoa carae too tote 

cU nope. - - ui>eJe55, ieriieieb.s ana jol riaagrit 

Wola.s iay oae tniiig ana actio rub anotnel 

UjiiioticeCT ol Lgriolea - - .brx oj one - - rialj aogen qj toe otnel 

Virltn a miruj thai tioLsts loLthjariCLj mougrit 

cMiae Lb coiifiubef) an$ oefa&o l Eeo v 

cJXlo maitel aoio nxiia cJ jug tit trie juoio 

clilea Lb trie only jiLace cJ go 

cRoiuia ana lounr} a uilxri|pooL 

cJ ILL rairuj ana ooa\j ale ulotcen La tliLb aLgguLrug existence 

cNo ail to bleaine, ao .bleu to iee, oaiy loaneb ana tnlauJerice gleet me 

&8W 



54 



«tf^V, 





Photo by Lindsay Croppor 



55 




Yl& 



S^a^^euin^ Me^e artwe/i /wzdh ■ at&Ax/wi 

/w< £&m<e0-/i>e !y c/esi //c/io-a* 

S^MvMa e-cw faee /<&&& Atdt/ev wf 

Me&rw-ut 
D&u!i/?& eu/ oat/ uJ/ea/ha, Me re^M 

6&/a£//7Mf e-am<, 

&cAe-t/ia< <£e-f%ut vac£> /e- me a^ve Me 

/'e/y^M 0fas / fi6>-e/??>. 



56 



whOflmi? 



somaimes i wonpeR if i even ww 

i tnow uiho i am hot 

i am noT cdy sun Tone or tw wgy i tgu 

i am hot coy pRess size or mY ace 

I Off) DOT (T)Y (PUCOTIOO OR (T)Y OCCUPflTlOn 

i om hot mY moTMR or mY fqtmr 
so who ami? 

I MT) DOT U)hftT YOU ThlOt 

i am moRe - - 1 am cess 

I Aft) DOT fi (AB£( 
l«B€CS 0R€ YOU - - Th€Y PRC OOT OK 

i am hot an assumPTion - - cuhaT you Thint i swxhp bc 

who ami? 

i sua port tnou) but I'm leaRnwc 

Finpinc The me wsipe - - The Real me 

Th€ om no one wows 

TM me i warn to ww 

The me u)hO warns you to see u)hO i am 

noT Who im supposep to Be 

Pfth 



57 



Ride 



Up and down, push and pull 

Push and pull, up and down 

The squeak of the tire against the road 

The click of the gear settling into place 

Up and down, push and pull 

Slide back into the seat 

Settle down into a crouch 

Push and pull, up and down 

Feel the wind pick up against my cheek 

The sound as it whistles past my ear 

Up and down, push and pull 

Muscles of my legs ease in 

The burn starts to fade 

Push and pull, up and down 

Lose myself on the road 

As the wind lifts me away 

Up and down, push and pull 

Push and pull, up and down. 

Daniel Moyer 




o fool 1 to pur ^rnvz, 

W^a. $ere tru$ in our roefoJ}? 

WindL.. 

^\ feft $e -fl-ocz of 30J $roi<-^ pu, 

flow 3 f*wff j M ^ fo4? 

He wfacL. 

JWmoPie's $at tad AP^reJ /u/> ^il p&^, 

Cop $e^ ^irspATe $e aou^ of ,^e JeoJ? 

\o $e >j^aJ... 

o aw do fop-^er ItateP to $e r>ote\ 

3ut Jo ^\ ^f Iqm pw roice? 

v5^ to $e K-ipJ... 

Hie rovMc 2*Wb o-uta, fiuk ^\ aro 001*1 afope, 

<Posm c^o ^ coptiotie op mi, oi^P? 

<£ore, r^tir^ to tf>e WapJ... 

o ra-i^ m^ f>eaj to $e 4>3, 

vVi tlWe N3rne$iP^ pt( m4 of we? 

T^ea^e, fore, 'mp^ to $e wwL. 

Klaw 3 cap \\rr-& a^ainj, 

)\)<i$out $>e ^fue^AOP to to'j teart, 

TCea'^e, fo\re, Mp^ to $e Mnd... 

^\ mis. at $e 4>^, 

^ wit Jo wtat pw >JoufJ >u4 for we. 

c£ove, NiP^ to $e wfodL. 

v\ aro not atooo., pu am hiil witf> roc, 

o w-$ ^o, ^ wil coptipue op. 

£fr% to $e WAPxL.. 

o f>ear $e pote'i apj rep ice, 

facf' aoupJa f$e a we war 3 of pu. 

io $e wind... 

Jl)^ $e tarmonteA p&^ fop-3 after ^ pip pu, 

3 ferxs/a $e^ APffre $e aoiA of a££. 

He wfaj... 

He ■tfaca of "#xJ ■wove*, ^nou^i me, 

1% fai$ *>> re^areJ. 

WipJ... 

^ee pur face opce more, 

He tru$ (a, op^ ip &o\ra\ fOefoJj. 

J\alie 6ic?>&!A 



59 




Art by Lauren Wrigr 



Rafflfrow After 

6eotly ft/lag, Irfe an early sprag raffl; 
Passion, hurt, and emotion swelling rfl the distance, 

IfleVitafr!*) ft worsens re/ent/essfy. 

foreMrfg 9nJ Jreao, af>rupt/y etyfcxfffg upon joo, 

Me a ton of (>ric((S dropped uponjour head. 

Then, conclude to rant, it leaves f>ros<jue/y. 

The raflifrow after never seemed so eflticiig, 

With only the somewhat detached, 

Aloof atmosphere left as a memento. 

tovrttie}) Bower 



61 



h\ooMV\as>tr - A CMil&rtv^'s* Votvu, 

Mooi/vchaser has, but daz goal, 

As he chases fair Mdda both high av^d low. 

ever sli/vce he has beei/v a colt he had waited her for h'imself 

■So he could put her 1\a ajar ai/vd teeep her da a shelf 

Hz had i/^ever realized how he would hurt the sua, 

AiAd how darfe It would be should he succzzd 'ua his fui/v. 

HiA-tll the i/ught he fli/vally corAZrzd "his" Mooia-, 

Hz rzavzd up at her ai/ud whli/vi/vled his tuiA-e. 

"Moo^!" becfeo^ed he, "we rueet at last! 

"Coi/vie with m,e ia-ow, become a thliA,g of the past! 

you arz to shli/ve your light to i/we oiA,ly, 

Com.e with rue iaow at/td we shall i/\,ever be lonely!" 

MooiAchaser rzavzd up, deteri/vdi/vatloiA, showiA,, 

Though It was oiaIw ia,ow that he realized how i/viuch he had growi/u 

For he could ia,ow see Mood's eyes, beautiful Indeed, 

Avid adwJivzd her so, as she adi/vilred the steed. 

A grl^v played across Mood's delicate facz 

she spofee softly to the steed, i/Kovli/\,g at his pace. 

"MooiAchaser Moom,chaser, ( admire \aou so! 

B>ut belong to Diaz bziiA&j? tteaveiAS ao\ 

I watch as iadu follow i/we, faithfully through the i/ughts, 

Ai/vd \adu have feept up well, despite \aduy i/wa^y plights. 

( have become attached to ijdu av^d wish iadu well, 

B»ut ca a iadu li/viagli/\,e the i/tlghts If I fell? 

62 



I belong to the sky with both Swu and star, 

Iheu are vw\a brothers, and l will not venture far. 

you «re not the only one to adwlre me, 

Although won the only oiA,e to try and tatee me, «s far as I caia. see. 

you are the first to show such Ideas a ad persistence, 

But as for you. taking me, I must show resistance." 

hAoonchaser arose at Moon's reply, "But fair Moon, why can't l have yow., why? 

Who needs anu other If I have iadu? 

And brother sun can keep the s\zij both night and blue. 

I have followed \aou. over water and land, 

And through deserts with hot scorching sand, 

I've risked my freedom, traveling through man's territory, 

it Is true; i have a one of a kind life storij. 

But I have tow^e all this way and have nothing to show, 

For the fact I got to talk to ijdu and relish In ijour glow. 

Fair Moon, what will I have If I do not have ijou? 

I'll have nothing to live for and nothing to do ] " 

uadu Moon listened throughout the Ljounc^ one's, plea, 

"But why would \ad\a. want to spend eternity with me? 

I am old with no stories of m.y own, 

And have no love to give, and even less to loan. 

because i belong to everyone, be you man or beast, 

I am wise beyond \Aears, decades at least. 

But young one, I will not let uour journeij end In vain. 

But believe me now; you will no longer be plain!" 



63 



just thei/t a star fell from, the sfey, 
Aia.oI It telssed MooiA,chaser between his delicate eyes. 
Ai/td thei/t a bright Light fell upoiA. the mouiAtaliA,, 
Followed by a yellow aiA,d starry fo utA-taliA,. 
MooiA,chaser felt iA,othliA,g, but something was uvdc^ue ia,ow. 
Although he dldiA/t fe^ow exactly what, why or how. 
AiA-d he wouldn't teiA,owjust what It was u^tll her brother Suia, shoiA<e, 
~&ecau£,e Mood's light was iA,ot enough to do It aloiA,e. 

Moo \a, smiled brightly, her face ia,ow alight, 

"Now you. will always reiAA.em.ber me aiA,d this special i/ught. 

This Is my gift to \ad\a., tafee care of It, please. 

! will always be here for uou, If ijoia. have paliA, to tc\s,e. 

B>ut ( must go ia,ow; m.y brother Is coming up over there, 

Beware of his light; It's both vivid aiA,d -fair. 

You will see my gift Iia, his wondrous light, 

AiA,d you will always remember this very iA,lght." 

with that said mooia, set below the la^d aiA,d Sww, the^ rose, 

what brilliance the yellow Su^ did pose! 

Iia, the light MooiA,chaser did see the gift mooia, gave, 

(t was something to keep, It was something to save. 

It always glimmered brightly Iia, the iA,ew w.orv^iv^Q light, 

AiA,d showiA, eveiA, brighter oia, Mood's full lAight. 

you see Mooia, gave the spirited ov^e a single silver horiA,, 

AtA,d ^o became MootA,chaser the uiaXcona,. 

As> h llej a ros lewlcz 



64 




T^jm 



Photo by Dr. Karen Schramm 



Rise, Phoenix, Rise 

Like the Phoenix 

Rising from the ashes 

Being reborn anew 

Wiser from the battles lost 

Ready to face life's struggles again 

She was a broken creature 

A shadow of her former self 

Now she is reborn anew 

Stronger from rebirth 

Ready to challenge the world again 

Her song was once silenced 

The world was darker without her voice 

Now reborn from the ashes 

She rises from the fires 

Singing her song for all to sing 

2-13-06 

Aimee Strouse 




66 



History in the Mistaking 

Times long gone 

Times long stayed 

Regrets and mistakes 

None shall ever say 

Tell we might 

A tale 

A tall tale 

To keep yet its true secret 

But stay nonetheless a truthful lie 

Though yet there is some light 

A shinning white 

No color could ever illustrate 

Memories and victories 

Success! 

But to its limits 

Suffering comes before happiness 

You are of one 

A speck amongst the "great tapestry" 

The insolent ant amongst the "great all seeing eye" 

One among many 

It takes one to be one 

One voice 

One power 

One world 

One life 

By Asia Williams 



67 




Katheryne 




FIRE 



FIRE BURN 

AND FIRE ROAR 

DEEP INSIDE 

LET IT SOAR 

WILD AND FREE 

LET IT SEE 

TO THE SICKNESS THAT AILS THEE 

BARE TO ALL THAT HAS STRIPPED 

THEE OF HOPE 

BARE TO ALL IN REPLACE TO START A NEW 

OPEN UP THE POWER INSIDE YOU... 

ASIA WILLIAMS 



70 



"My^ngel" 

tyes a beautiful brown, words spoken 

but I hear not a sound, I'm too lost 

in a world ofJCings and Queens, her 

hair in a beautiful crown, calm 

when she's here but lost when she's 

not around, bringing a smile to my 

face even when Fin feeling down. But 

seriously I believe she could be an 

Jlngel, on Earth to save my life, 

amazing how she makes me feel, 

maybe she could be my wife, I even 

thought twice, now, tell me how, 

despite, in a world frill of grains of 

rice, this girl could be the one that 

treats me right, in my mind I 

couldn't find a reasoning for 

existence, I asked myself whose and 

what kind of life is this, just then I 

saw her light glisten past my door. 

breath-taking bliss my heart fill to 

the floor, I took a chance on the girl 

thai caught my eye. and to tin 

heavens my. /Inge I and I will fly. 

Jeuyel Steinbacher 



71 





Photo by Daniollc/Friedrich 



73 



2006 Dedication 
Mrs. Ruth Moran - Kindergarten Teacher 

~ Truth in Legends ~ 

Over - beyond what man has seen 

Where time passes slowly in dreams 

There stood a castle - surrounded by woods 

Where an enchantress' mystical powers stood 

Day by day - beginning with morning light 

She spread her wonderful wings in flight 

Her song of course could only be heard 

By trees and others - who grew where they stood 

Butterflies would follow - like tails of a kite 

While trees grew strong and tall with her might 

No matter which plant came to be 

She loved with a love none of us could see 

And so the woods grew through ages behind 

Legends of man were told of treasures to find 

But none dared to enter her dominion and look 

So these rhymes just collected in books 

Yet one would come - with glittering eyes 

Who always seemed followed by fireflies 

She too could make anything grow 

And into the woods she always had urges to go 



74 



And the day would come when resistance failed 
Beyond the trees to the enchantress she hailed 
The castle gates gleamed with silver and gold 
While the castle walls were of crystal I'm told 

The enchantress knew just what this meant 

For she was once a girl - before many years spent 

And greeting her with mystic, flickering eyes 

The enchantress passed her magic to where it now lies 

This girl took in all the powers that passed 
From elder to youth all legends were stashed 

For it was now this young girl's turn 
To rule the forests with the spells she learned 

As for the enchantress, do not fear 

She lived on within the castle, my dear 

For even though she passed all she knew 

Her love for the forest forever grew 

The forest shall never forget and neither will she 
For truth and legends are quite deeper than the sea... 

LMP 



75 



NOTHING TO WRITE... 

tonight not one now thought not 

one new word not one new pearl 

of wisdom comes to mind. I'm 

up because of the heat I can't 

sleep because the heat won't lot 

mo sloop, the house is all closed 

in because of the air conditioning. 

I can't fall back to sleep so I'll 
write something. I'll write anything 

'cause who the hell is going to 

road it anyway: everyone has his or 

her own problem I'm sure they needn't 

be concerned with a sleepless old man 

that's just too hot to fall asleep 
with his poop poop poop about no sleep. 

fio I'll try this time to go to bed and 

dream good dreams about the lord and me 

to see if that can't put mo to sleep 

for sure so I could snore and snore 

and finally fall fast yos fast asleep in 

my bed like lead, like I'm dead. 

Bornie Bernstein 



76 



The Gleaner 

High School Writing 
Competition 



The English Department 
is very happy to have sponsored its second 

high school writing competition, 

which was designed to showcase the work 

of young writers in the area. 



77 



A Chnstiuas Carol 



7 o'clock, dark and m$ 

« saw 

a deer 

asleep ot\ the side of the street 

sprawled, runmn^ 

eyes Irt up by the headlgftts 

lit up and empty and asleep and 

no o\\t will move ft off the asphalt 

it will rot on the road, and little children 
peeking frees oat backseat windows 

will shudder <fuietly 

draw back into warmth and safety 

(»ut tfiey won't let on, 

won't #ve a hint as to what scared them 

because it's cold outside 

it's the end of decemf>er 

and halfyaj) through the weak 

spin-d^nft week between Christmas and klew-Year's 

and noth^ bad can happen 

and the deer is just asleep 

just resting in the dirt 

le$s tveki under, reaching and 

broken 

eyes sU\ starry mto the head'amp-^low that hummed and homed and hypnotized 

heann$ the horn 

and then the doll thud, 
and a d>i$ deer falling to its knees 
but the trock fro% on, radio Mann^ 

it's the most wonderful time of the jear. 



Austin Tally 

The fleor^e School 

erade U 

tn^lfsh Teacher : Mr. Terry mhtot] 

78 



ALEXANDER HAMILTON RUNS 
THE VOODOO DOWN 

In the seventh month 

Of eighteen hundred and four 

The eleventh day 

The place: Weehawken 
That ancient, mystical land 
State of Mew Jersey 

A man with a beef 

The one they call Aaron Burr 

He steps on the scene 

His adversary 
Alexander Hamilton 
Professional jerk 

"And now," said Aaron 
"Time to settle this, big boy 
Settle it with guns." 

VP Burr waited 

Mo response was forthcoming 

Just a sullen stare 

"You hearing me, boy?" 
The Vice President goads on 
"Are you listening?" 

"1 know it was you 

Cost me that governorship 

And you'll pay for that 

I thought I told you 

That gun control means using 

Both hands in my land." 

Again he awaits 

But only stony silence 

While two snake eyes glare 

Burr done had enough 

"We're finishing this, Ham-Man 

Your number is up 

Mo more tariffs or 
Strong federal government 
Or excise taxes 

And seriously 

Who thinks a national bank 

Is a good idea? 



You're really a dick 
And a Federalist prick- 
It just makes me sick." 

Having thus spoken 

Burr done raised his revolver 

He fired a shot 

Cold pellet of death 
Annihilation-bearer 
Target: Hamilton 

Strikes with precision 
And bounces off harmlessly 
Bullet falls to ground 

Glistening wings unfold 
Alexander Hamilton 
Reveals his true form 

Titanium skin 

Great steel legs like a spider 

Photon cannons, too 

Rising to full height 

By which I mean freaking tall 

Really freaking tall 

Burr falls to his knees 
Before the dreadful visage 
Weeps at the horror 

Ultra-Hamilton 

Casts one last gaze of contempt 

Burrows underground 



Thus he disappeared 

And no one on Earth knows 

When he will return 



.except me. 



Tim Melms 

West Chester East High School 

Grade 12 

Teacher: Mrs. Jenkins 



79 



Speedometer creeps up to 

IBBI 

I7BI 

IBBI 

Eges watBring ands tinging, 

TakB gour hands off the wheel 

The car swbivbs nnto the wrung side 

Of the bright yellow lines 

For a split second 

Close your eyes and, 

Careen iny into the black uncertainty 

Of the unknown, 

Take the corner on two wheels 

Whiz by danyerously cluso tu the 

/tree! 

Ibridyel 

Itelephune pule I 

Sunruufupen, 

Motor snarling beneath gou, 

Laughing intu the black face under the tires 

You can hear the wind 

Screaming past gour left cheek 

But all guu can see 

Are the ins ides of gour egelids 

Oaring gou to lift them, 

To save gourself 

And for just a mument 

Danger can't tuuch gou, 

Basking in 

lirnmortalitgl 

Iglorgl 

Ithe son! 



Sarah Dchocki 
Wissahickon High School 

Grade 11 
English teacher: Mrs. Smith 



80 



lacking nolhng 



that old stretch op a dirt road. 

surrounded by solid plains and existing 

under a uuistrul blue sky- 

1 could recognize it anyuuhere. 

our trip, a break prom umpomnity op everyday 

lire, planned precisely. 

right doujn to every road 

and every turn uue shoulanave made. 



but something happened, he broke auuay 

prom his lire- or maybe he slipped into it- 

and uje pound ourselves on that 

unknouun parm road, as out op place in our lives 

as uue uuere on its path. 



and then our car broke douun. piercing 

Dht into shadouus op old routines, our perpection 

uuas never meant por that stretch 

op lipe. and even though uje broke. 

it uuas breaking together that made 

all the dipperence. 



the air uuas still, uuhispenng no secrets nor help 

in our ears 

that time, it ujas just the tuuo 

op us. alone, uuith nothing 

to stand in betuueen. and so 



he started talking, he had to. 

the air uuould have suuallouued 

us in emptiness otheruuise. he talked 

por all the years uue hadn't, 
and somehouu it uuas porgiveness. too. 



no one came to help us that day 

uue uuere broken, but that uuas 

exactly uuhat uue needed, uue managed 

to px our car. ourselves: not quite 

so perpecL close enough. 



that old stretch op a dirt road- 
it changed the air betuueen us. 



jenniper uueber 

hunterdon central regional high school 

oradelO 

english teacher: ms. malzone 

81 



Memory 

Happy. Happy at last. With a euphoric sense of falling, I ride the thunderstorm's 
ominous ebony clouds to my destination: England. I get off deep in the heart of London, where I 
hob-knob with Marley and a rather rowdy crowd of poltergeists. I sip tea in a deserted warehouse, 
dressed in spider-webs and moonlight, and stalk through mounds of splintered crates and moldy 
packing chips stinking of mildew. I meander about the ancient standing stones of pagan rituals 
where unspeakable acts to nameless, obscene gods were performed long ago. So long ago... 

I ride an outgoing snowstorm to America. The blizzard strikes as scheduled, over 
the state of Maine. Over the sound of coastal waves braking on rocky crags, the teeth of the shore, I 
hear the lonely howling sound of a lost wolf cub, dying in the blizzard. Quickly, I race over to it and 
wait for its blood to freeze and for it to die. It does, within a matter of hours (a quick amount of 
time, in which I counted all the beautifully crystalline snowflakes as they fell) and it follows me on 
my journey. We catch a Northeasterner to Washington, D.C., where I stop at the Library of 
Congress, after saying hello to my old friend Abraham Lincoln. The books each have their own 
unique and ethereal aura which I can taste and touch and feel: the slimy calamari taste of Lovecraft, 
the sea-salty tuna of Hemingway, the exotic Stardust spice of Bradbury, the bitter vinegar of Poe, and 
the plum-pudding of Dickens. I feel the dagger in Romeo's heart; a cascade of pixie dust from 
Tinkerbelle's wand; and the chaotic forces of wild magic coursing through me while I recite ancient 
runes from worm-eaten grimoires detailing all of the universe's forbidden secrets. I smell the sulfur 
of Dante's Hell, the aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls coming from Calpurnia's kitchen, and the oily 
stench of Mieville's magical steamtechnology being repaired, all overlapping an unimaginable stink 
of age, dust, and yellowed pages. It reminds of a place I used to know... 

We walk along abandoned game trails, the paths of the deer, and under the deep 
waters of many streams. I watch as fish and sometimes murky amphibious lake monsters avoid us, 
unnerved by our presence. The wolf pup bounds along at my side, untiring but still trying in vain to 
eat and drink, chasing game it can never catch. 

It still remembers what it was in life, unlike me. 

Under the night sky, I listen to the music of the spheres, accompanied by a platoon of crick- 
ets and a single, solitary owl. It is beautiful, but it doesn't help my condition. Not anymore. 

I have forgotten. I have forgotten my name, my past, my home, and I in turn have been for- 
gotten. 

I am now both more and less than human. I converse with the October People, 
and my social circles involve eldritch ghouls who weave horrendous tales in their 
decrepit tomb-cities as they eat the dead of civilizations long since buried by the sands of time and 
crumbling, wizened mummies who cavort with Anubis and other, darker deities in their hoary pyra- 
mids of far-off Egypt. I have heard Poseidon's trident clash with the gibbering, formless horrors that 
swim in the sea's trenches, and the moans of damned 

souls wandering the Earth for all eternity. I am all-knowing, and information flows through me like 
gore through an open wound. I see the diffuse wonders of God's creation: the deepest oceans, filled 
with the ruins of lost continents pre-human and ill-shaped glowing fish; the underground caverns of 
the Earth, where through strange alchemy coal changes to crystal, and foul abominations beyond 
human conception churn and creep; the highest layers of atmosphere, where transcended beings 
dwell like powerful emperors; and the starry vacuum of glittering stars and glowing, diffuse nebulae. 
I climb into the dreams of poets and the nightmares of madmen, viewing Morpheus' murky and 
empyreal land in all its malleable glory, a world of noble knights and futuristic sky-cities, hideous 
gargoyles and scenes of fear that defy even my 

description. I hear the wing beats of angels, the whispering conversations of the Faerie, and the 
mad, cackling laughter of infernal demons. But I feel nothing for I cannot care... 

I am a specter. A whirl of the imagination, a spot of frigid air, a gloomy shape lurking in 
attics and garages, that is me. In my undeath, I have the power to reduce myself to the smallest 
atomic particle and float around a nucleus, as well as the power to explore the bizarre planetoids of 
the Kuiper Belt, where silicon-based extraterrestrials dream electric dreams, but I have not the 
power to remember who I was. Did I even have a name? Who was I? 

I was. ..I was... 

I Am Ghost. 

Justin Schoener 

Council Rock North 

Grade 12 

English teacher: Ms. Andrea Lamberth 

82 



"Stargazing" 

"Don't you wish you could just catch them and keep them in a jar?" She said, 

gazing up at the summer sky. 

"How do you propose we light the sky, then?" Laughing slightly, his hand crept 

across the soft grass and rested on top of hers. The hill was green and wet with dew, 

glistening in the light of the moon and the brilliant stars of July. The two stargazers 

drank in the celestial scene, stars twinkling a myriad of colors like faceted crystals in the 

sun. The moon was almost full, shining an ethereal light upon the two, giving everything 

on a grassy hill a hue of blue and silver. Every so often, a shooting star would streak 

through the cerulean blanket of sky, a bittersweet reminder of the evanescence of beauty. 

A warm breeze quietly rustled the leaves of the tree above them. 

She lifted her hand, absently tracing the murky white line of the Milky Way 

across the sky. "It makes you feel kind of small, doesn't it?" She whispered. 

"I guess it does. Just ...to know that there's so much out there." He looked up at 

the infinite expanse of deep azure, his eyes moving from one star of the Big Dipper to the 

next. Here, on this perfect night, he felt he could actually see the image painted into the 

heavens. His gaze moved from the patchwork of stars and finally fell upon her face. Her 

deep blue eyes drew him in, until it seemed as though he could drown in them. The 

reflection of the sky glistened in her irises, sparkling like the heavens themselves. He 

was almost sure he could make out the Milky Way, and the Big Dipper, and the moon, 

and hundreds of other celestial marvels in those eyes. He found himself lost in the starry 

orbs, not sure if he could ever withdraw himself from her gaze. 

"They're so beautiful," she breathed, still immersed by the dancing lights in the 

sky. 
"Yes," he said without shifting his focus, "they are." 



Whitney Dearden 
Council Rock High School North 

Grade 12 
Teacher: Ms. Andrea Lamberth 

83 



The Great Escape: 

The Grand Episode of Julia Huang & Huckleberry Finn 

I connected the dots on the parabolic curve, sloping gently towards infinity at the top of the 
paper, Finished with algebra homework, I stood up and stretched while casting a glance 
around my room: a half-packed suitcase for this weekend's Key Club board meeting, a can- 
vas propped against the wall, scattered pastels on the floor.,, Then, outside my window, a 
tiny square of light painted against the dark night caught my eye. With a sudden, sponta- 
neous flight of the imagination, I grabbed my jacket, tiptoed down the stairs, and slipped out 
into the airy night. 

The grass was slick and wet under my bare feet as I crossed the yard towards the cabin from 
which the light was shining. The familiar silhouette of a small boy appeared on the other 
side. He moved briskly as he tore a hole in the sack he was carrying and fine cornmeal sift- 
ed out into a trail. He disappeared with it towards the creek behind his cabin, and came 
back leading a canoe by rope, I made a move to call out to him, but stopped myself. Since 
school started, we didn't talk much anymore. 

Last year, Huck and I became unlikely companions. Initially, I only watched him from a 
distance with fascination and slight amusement at the carefree mischief he caused in the 
streets. In time, a friendship grew in the thin space where the circles of our two universes 
merged in a Venn diagram, In his simplicity, he viewed my world with easygoing candor; 
untainted by society's conventional wisdoms about race, money, and friendships, his almost 
naive, yet insightful perceptions transcended learned prejudices. It was in moments I felt 
spread too thin, pulled in too many directions that I sought his companionship most. On 
those nights, I'd climb out my window and we would lie on the grass in the neighbor's 
orchard. Under the soft streaks of moonshine behind wisps of gray clouds, I'd take a good 
look at him, Huckleberry Finn, with half of his young face hidden in shadow, I didn't envy 
him or his life, yet I never tired of hearing his suspicions that there weren't really any 
Spaniards and the "A-rabs" were only a Sunday school picnic, Most nights, though, he'd 
just listen to me think out loud, I'd talked about a new book I found, complain about my 
family, or wonder where I would be in a few years, And despite the irony of the topics I 
chose, Huck never objected. Once in a while, he'd take a bite of a stolen apple, chew 
thoughtfully and reply, "Well, Jules, I reckon' you jes' think too much," 

I was shaken from my thoughts by the sudden movements ahead. With a jolt, I saw Pap's 
skiff coming down the river, Fluck lost no time and pushed his canoe off the muddy bank, 
sending soft ripples through the water. I held my breath as I watched him drift downstream. 
Silently, I wished him grand adventures, Breathing in all things authentic, I turned around 
and as quietly as I could, ran through the adjacent yard back home: chemistry awaited. 

Julia Fluang 
Council Rock North 
Grade 12 
Ms, Andrea Lamberth 

84 



The Hospital Volunteer 



For three hours a week (really two hours and 45 minutes), 

I sit in the cramped Patient Transport office: 

Walls without windows 

Painted a sickly yellow color. 

A row of oxygen canisters 

In neat, shiny lines. 

And a large picture of roses in a vase, with "Volunteers Add That Special Touch" written beneath. 

Irritated nurses summon me to some corner of the building through the little black pager, 

Which emits an unearthly rattling and 

Startles only me every time. 

When I reach for the hand sanitizer it squirts antibacterial foam all over me. 

The scent of the hospital sticks to me long after I leave my shift. 

It smells of a variety of chemicals- 

That mysterious liquid inside a syringe, 

Disinfectant covering up all sorts of unpleasant somethings. 

Of scrubs garishly patterned with flowers and swirls, 

Grumpy technicians returning from smoking breaks, 

And, of course, 

I catch whiffs of sorrow, of death, 

Which I'm sure circulates through the air vents. 

My patient is heaved unceremoniously upon the immaculate white sheets of the stretcher. 

They are always the same sick soul, reincarnated in a new form every week. 

Always, they lie there surrounded by bags of fluid and a tangle of tubes, 

Oxygen up the nose, making gasping noises like enormous fish. 

As I roll them down the hallways, I want to ask them, 

"Do you wonder about who lay on this stretcher before you? 

Who was being pushed in pain here yesterday? 

Someone with a hip replacement? Kidney stones? Gout?" 

Doesn't matter, now you all have something in common. 

I am steering so clumsily, coming close to walls and food carts, 

That I am almost glad the patient is incapable of noticing. 

I take my transport to the CAT-Scan, the X-Ray, the Ultrasound, 

Whatever piece of complicated machinery it happens to be this time. 

Good little UPS Man of the medical world. 

As I leave to go sit in the tiny office again, 

I wonder if a fundamental difference between people 

Is whether they see the hospital as a heaven or hell, 

Or if it is actually a limbo 

Where someone may inadvertently make the decision: 

You live. You die. You will be back again, 



Oh yes, you will be back again. 

Violet Kupersmith 

85 



Upon Fly Canvas 

(In tJie style of clurara Morales) 

I am an artist 

8 restless adolescent voiced m delicate brushstrokes, 

9 child of depiction, forever devoted to the devotion o) my masters. 

I am Uan Gogh, a visionary lost m drunken dreams, 
3 hundred dormant nouses under blazing stars and a crescent moon, 

Heqlected sunflowers, gasping |or air through withered leaves. 

I 3m the distant cry of ominous winds, howling with the agony of defeat. 

The skies are alive tonight. 

I am lionet the poet of impressionism, 

The silent serenity of a bridged stream, 

Gardens of lily pads and blossoms, 

Flourishing in the smudges of romantic pastels. 

I am the youthful image of a woman, pausing in the wheat fields. 

The gentle wind ruffles my skirt and tempts my parasoL 

Hoping to lure it into the breeze. 

I am Frida, the warrior of oil pastels. 
Flu own bleeding heart pounds against my palm. 

The colors hide my eyes of anger 

Floroid themes tend my open wounds of grief 

i am a collection of self-portraits; each of my faces stares back in contempt. 

The sinister winds howl behind my sullen eyes. 

The paint is my gun and the hues my bullets. 

1 3m Uarhof enthusiast of the iconic world. 

1 3m Marilyn Honroe, Hao 3edong, and a Campbell 5 Soup can. 

Fly inverted colors paint faces of stars, 

Begging for something different begging for a change. 

The desperate wind rushes through blue ears and green hair, 

Uishing for the illustration of a movement. 

I am an artist. I will go where the wind takes me. 
For now, the canvas is blank. 



Lauren kimmel 

Council Rock Florth High School 

grade 12 

English teacher: lis. Qndrea Lamberth 

86 



Vwzgax and 5alt 

Nothing iasfcs txz+t<zr than 

fisW n' ckips 

in this 5co"H"isn town 



Bought for 3 pounds at the nearby chip skip 

where 1 ima_gine all the locals jjo 

where the chap behind the counter calls me "love" 

and asks whether I'd like "vinegar and salt with that?" 

where I fall briefly in love with the bloke doing the frying 

who 1 can Just see in the back, his sideburns and sure hands, 

the _grease stains smeared on his white T-shirt suggestively 

where "take out" is called "take away" and 

the wooden fork is free but the ketchup packets are 30 pence each 

Nothing tastes better than 

fish n' chips 

in this 5cottish town 

After a long training run through narrow streets 

past gardens and bowling _greens and dogs barking with 5cottish accents 
sweat drenching, legs aching, ears ringing, rain pouring, sky draining, darkness 
descending 

When 1 collapse on my bed in our BsB, 

drunk with tiredness and in love with everything, 

I taste sweat and summer while chewing 

and also an imagined flavor that makes me blush as I swallow 

the frying bloke's hot jreasy mouth pressed against mine 

And then the complicated taste that 1 am ravenous for: 
triumph 

vinegar 
and 

salt 

1 am devouring 5cotland 
I will never be full 



Cara Liuzzi 

Abington Friends 5chool 

Grade 11 

English teacher: Ms. Mary Lynn £llis 

87 



WiWYfH 



Winter is a crying woman 

Locked in a little white room. 

Her screams shiver the trees, 

And when she whispers to herself, 

Rocking herself 

Throughout the lonely nights, 

Snow outside my window flurries down 

Like snatches of overheard conversation. 

Sometimes she grows afraid. 
Paralyzed by fear, she shrinks away 

From the terrors lying hidden 

in the white walls that imprison her. 

Or she will rage for days on end, 

Beat her fists and rake fingernails along the floor. 

But she will eventually calm, 

And only silent slush remains as evidence. 

One day, she reaches for the door 

And finds that it was open all along. 

Like a vapory exhalation on a chilly morning. 

She slips away. 

Winter is a crazy woman, 

A ghost who comes again each year. 



Violet Kupersmith 



88 










v 



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